


Vintage Pink

by writerchick0214



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M, Phil has the flu, Phil is a Fanboy, Robin Hood - Freeform, Steve wearing an apron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 01:11:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerchick0214/pseuds/writerchick0214
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Clint is off on a mission, Phil comes down with the flu. Phil never thought he'd have his childhood hero taking care of him, and he really never imagined Captain America wearing a frilly pink apron while doing so. </p><p>Just a fluffy little piece for Crocochoo. Her birthday was this month, and even though this is late, I hope she enjoys!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vintage Pink

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crocochoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crocochoo/gifts).



> This is not BETAed, since this is a gift for my BETA. 
> 
> Also, if you notice the tense switching back and forth towards the middle/end, that's because I've been writing with AlexKingOfTheDamned and we just so happen to write in two difference tenses, so I may have gotten confused. I tried to go back and fix everything, but I'm sure I missed a lot. Please ignore the mistakes. 
> 
> Hopefully my BETA will fix and I can repost.

Phil tugged at the collar of his shirt with a shaking hand, his tie coming loose in the process, but couldn’t bring himself to fix it; his whole body was overheating, sweat making his clothes tacky and uncomfortable. The pile of paperwork loomed ominously before him, taunting him, cluttering the desk enough to set Phil on edge. Phil sat there for what felt like hours, just staring at the forms that needed to be completed, urging his body to cooperate but the fatigue he had felt since waking that morning was increasing with every second that passed. His eyes seemed to slip closed of their own accord, a hacking cough escaping his already sore throat as he slumped forward, head stopping to rest on an outstretched forearm.

*

            “Agent Coulson?”

            Phil moaned groggily, unsure of his surroundings, head pounding and heavy and so full of cotton it took a second to realize someone was calling his name. The hand on his shoulder caught Phil by surprise and he jerked, sending paperwork and the Captain America mug Clint got him for his forty-second birthday flying, coffee spilling all over the unfinished 1030-F and 67-N forms. With unfocused eyes Phil looked around, hand on his gun, only to find Captain Rogers looking worriedly at him, hands held up in surrender. Phil sighed and his breath caught in his throat, causing him to double over while a coughing fit wracked his entire body.

            Steve moved so quickly that Phil didn’t notice until strong hands were on him, rubbing his back and helping him sit up straight. Steve was saying something but Phil couldn’t make out the words, the ringing in his ears reaching a deafening level, the other man’s face doubling and then tripling before him, weaving together in a cacophony of colors and shapes. Phil shook his head, attempting to damper Steve’s worry, but the movement caused him to moan, clammy fingers reaching up to cover his face against the light that was suddenly too bright.

            “Agent Coulson-Phil-are you alright?”  Steve asked, brushing his knuckles against Phil’s flushed cheek.

            “I’m fine, Captain Rogers,” Phil said, but judging by the way Steve squinted, the words came out a jumbled and slurred mess.

            Steve hoisted Phil to his feet as if the agent weighed nothing-and to the super solder, Phil probably _did_ weigh nothing, Phil noted with an edge of hysterical humor-and wrapped a firm arm around his waist. Even though Phil would never admit it, a weak, pained whine escaped his mouth at the sudden movement, vertigo assaulting his senses and for a second he was certain he was going to vomit. Phil went willingly when Steve started to move, his legs like lead when he lifted them--one foot in front of the other chanting in the back of his mind like a mantra. It wasn’t until they were in the car garage in the basement of HQ that Phil realized he had no idea where they were going.

            “I’m taking you home,” Steve told him as he gently deposited him in the passenger seat of Lola. 

            Had he said that out loud?

            Steve chuckled softly while he buckled Phil in, rifling about in Phil’s pockets for the keys, and said, “You did,” and finally found the keys in the inside pocket of the suit jacket Phil wished he wasn’t wearing—it was much too hot. Groaning, Phil let himself sink into the plush seats he knew well, his head tilting back to rest at a comfortable angle. Soft jazz and the sweet purr of Lola lulled Phil into a fitful sleep, and the next thing he knew Steve was leading him into an elevator, asking Jarvis to take them to Phil and Clint’s floor.

            “I tried to call Clint,” Steve told him, practically carrying all of Phil’s weight, “he didn’t answer, but I left a message.

            “Mission,” Phil mumbled and he hoped Steve would understand what he was trying to convey.

            “I know,” Steve said, voice tinged with a sadness Phil didn’t understand, “I just thought you might like to talk to him.”

              Phil nodded in agreement, head lolling to the side to rest against Steve’s arm. Only vaguely aware of his surroundings, Phil almost didn’t notice when they entered his living room, and barely registered the softness of his mattress when Steve sat him on the bed. Steve slid Phil’s jacket off, setting it neatly on the armchair Clint liked to sit in while he read, and worked on Phil’s tie; Phil tried to help remove the articles of clothing but felt like he was moving in slow motion, everything sluggish and blurred around the edges. When Phil was down to his undershirt and trousers, Steve urged Phil back until he was lying down, and disappeared down the hall. Phil wasn’t sure how long Steve was gone, but the next time Phil opened his eyes there was a cool compress on his forehead and Steve was lifting him with a hand on the back of his neck, a glass of water placed against his dry, chapped lips.

            “Drink,” Steve whispered, tilting the glass until Phil opened his mouth.

            Phil knew he should probably be embarrassed, but the water was so deliciously cold he couldn’t find it in himself to care that he was being manhandled like a child. Steve set his head back on the pillow and pulled the sheet up to Phil’s neck, tucking him securely in a too-hot cocoon, which he protested with a grunt. Steve answered with a laugh and said something about a doctor, but Phil was already falling asleep, eyelids heavy.

*

            When Phil woke, there were people talking nearby. Every instinct in Phil’s body was telling him to move, to grab the gun he knew was taped under the nightstand, to defend himself, but he was bone-tired and his body wasn’t listening to his brain. He must have said something because the talking stopped and a comforting hand smoothed the sweat-soaked hair off of his forehead.   

            “Captain Rogers?” Phil asked, throat rough and raw, his words getting caught.

            “You can call me Steve,” he said, “Tony is here. I told him to call a doctor for you.”

            Phil hummed, protesting, “No doctor.”

            “She’s already on her way,” Tony said, walking closer.

            Phil sighed, resigned, and let himself be carried away to sleep once again.

*

            “I can’t have the flu,” Phil argued, trying and failing to sit up.

            “I’m afraid you do, Agent Coulson,” Doctor McKenzie said, packing her bag.

            “I have never had the flu in my life.”

            “There’s a first time for everything.”

            Doctor McKenzie smiled softly at him, turning away to talk to Steve. Phil wasn’t sure where Tony had went, having left sometime during his nap, but Steve was still there, listening intently to whatever the doctor was telling him. Steve stood tall, arms crossed over his chest, face pinched in concern; he nodded in understanding every time the doctor told him something, and took whatever prescriptions she handed him.

            “I hope you feel better,” she told Phil before leaving.

            “Alright, Agent Coulson,” Steve started, but Phil held up a tired hand.

            “Phil.”

            “Alright, Phil,” Steve walked closer, opening a bottle of Gatorade-Phil wondered where it came from, knowing Clint had taken the last one out of their fridge before leaving for his mission-and handed it to Phil. “Doctor McKenzie said you need to stay hydrated, get a lot of rest, and take these pills.”

            “I don’t _get_ sick,” Phil said again, but took the Gatorade regardless.

            Phil hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until he took a sip, and suddenly he was chugging half the bottle down, not caring that he spilled a few drops down his chin. Gulping for air, Phil pulled away from the bottle and held his hand out for the medicine, glaring at the decongestant and then at Steve when the younger man chuckled.

            “After you take that, drink some of this cough syrup,” Steve said, handing over a bottle labeled Promethazine, “the doctor said it would help.”

            Phil looked over the label carefully and raised an eyebrow at the taller man. “Are you trying to compromise me, Captain?”

            Steve blushed, the tips of his ears turning pink and he began to stumble over his words, an apology on the tip of his tongue. Phil waved him off.

            “I was only joking,” Phil assured, “this has codeine in it, so I may be a bit loopy.”

            “The doctor said it might, and she said there’s a chance it could make you dizzy or sick and that I should keep an eye on you.”

            “Oh,” it was Phil’s turn to blush, “there’s no need for that.”

            “I promised her I would stay,” Steve said, “and I know Clint wouldn’t want you to be alone.”

            Phil didn’t respond, only took the prescribed amount of cough syrup and lay back against his pillows, almost sighing as they seemed to engulf his too-warm-too-cold body. Steve began bustling about the room, straightening things that didn’t really need straightening, making sure Phil’s medicine was lined up neatly on the bedside table, before finally stopping to pull the comforter back up over Phil’s body to tuck under his chin. Phil forced himself to close his eyes and his mouth shut, and allowed himself to relax when Steve finally exited the room.

*

            Everything was out of focus and spilling when Phil opened his eyes, and it took him longer than was comfortable to realize he was in his room, in his bed, and was not in any immediate danger. Music was playing from somewhere, a slight crackling making Phil think it was his turn table in the corner of the room, and he had to strain his ears to hear someone moving about in some other area of the apartment—most likely the kitchen. Flexing his fingers, Phil tried to move into a more comfortable position but found himself too sleepy to do much other than flop onto his side, curling his knees almost to his chest.

            “Hey,” Steve said, just as Phil was about to doze off again, “think you can eat?”

            “Maybe,” Phil said, his tongue heavy and thick in his mouth.

            “I made you some soup.” Phil heard Steve move closer until he was standing next to the bed.

            Struggling to open his eyes, Phil blinked rapidly against the light, gazing up at Steve—and promptly closed them again because there was no way his childhood hero was wearing an apron, holding a bowl. Upon closer inspection, Phil realizes it’s the apron Tony had given Steve for Christmas as a joke, pale pink with vintage looking ruffles around the pockets. Steve doesn’t blush, but he does look down at the apron sheepishly, shrugging his shoulders to brush off the embarrassment. Phil sat up, arms shaking under his weight, and gladly took the bowl of soup, grinning when he sees his favorite chicken noodle soup.

            “Clint texted me the recipe,” Steve said, placing a napkin over Phil’s lap, “he wanted to talk to you but you were sleeping. He wanted me to tell you to get some rest, and to listen to me.”

            Phil breathes a laugh and sips at the broth, barely containing a moan of pleasure. “This is almost as good as Clint’s,” he praises.

            “Thank you,” Steve said, opening another bottle of Gatorade. “Drink this, and take your medicine.”

            Phil obliged, eating as much of the soup as his stomach could handle (which sadly was only about half of the bowl) and took his medicine as Steve had requested. Full and feeling a little more awake, Phil began searching for the remote, only to come up empty handed.

            “Are you looking for this?” Steve asked, holding up said remote.

            “Care to watch a movie, Captain?” Phil prompted, patting the space next to him.

            “Oh, I shouldn’t,” Steve replied, glancing at the bed nervously.

            “I insist,” Phil said, trying not to slur his words, “I promise Clint won’t be mad. If anything, he’ll make fun of me.”

            “Make fun of you?” Steve asked, but slowly comes around to Clint’s side of the bed. He looked at it for a moment longer before lowering himself down, removing the apron and the shoes. “Why would he do that?”

            Phil raised an eyebrow-at least, he thinks he does, but isn’t certain because his face is feeling a little numb-and said, “are you telling me you didn’t see _any_ of the Captain America memorabilia laying around the apartment?”

            Steve starts to stutter, “I-well-the thing is-I was trying not to snoop.”

            Phil laughed, the medicine making him fee giddy, “Clint will get a kick out of the two of us spending time together. And wait until I tell him you were wearing an apron!”

            Steve tried to look angry; a scowl on his face, but it breaks almost immediately and he relaxes against the pillows, crossing his bare feet at the ankles. “So what are we watching?”

            “Robin Hood,” Phil said, pulling up his and Clint’s queue. The letters on the TV are a little blurry and keep moving, but he manages to click the right file. “I used to watch this all the time when I was a kid. My mom would play it when I was sick, or if I was sad.”

            “Robin Hood,” Steve repeated, looking at Phil out of the corner of his eye, a teasing smile on his lips, “like, the archer?”

            Phil does _not_ blush. “Yes, the noble archer who takes from rich and gives to the needy.”

            “Well,” Steve is grinning now, “that sounds terribly familiar, doesn’t it?”

            “Shut up,” Phil grumbled, folding his arms over his chest as the movie starts.

            Phil is attempting to pay attention to the movie but his eyes are growing heavy and Steve is just close enough for Phil to feel his warmth, which is soothing enough to allow him to nod off.

*

            A third person moving about inside the apartment startles Phil awake. He’s gasping, and looks over at Steve who is also awake, looking around in the dark. There is a shuffling of feet and Phil immediately backs down, recognizing the footfalls as easily as he would recognize himself in a mirror. The hallways light clicks on just as Clint’s face emerges in the doorway, looking tired but happy, whispering Phil’s name in the quiet.

            “Hey, babe,” Phil croaked, reaching with shaking hands for the half empty Gatorade he had left lying next to him.

            “Where’s my invite to the slumber party?” Clint asked, teasing as he drops his duffle on the floor. He’s looking at Steve and Phil with a glint in his eye, and Phil waits for the next crack. “You’re looking pretty cozy there, Phil. You want me to leave you two alone?”

            “I’m sorry, Clint,” Steve blurted out as he hastily clambered off the bed. “I swear, nothing happened.”

            Clint’s lips purse, and his face is turning a little red; finally, he bursts into laughter, slapping his thigh. “Oh my God,” he gasped, “you should see your face! Seriously, you need to calm down. Phil and I have been happily married for more than five years. I really don’t think either of you would do anything to ruin that.”

            Clint’s clothes are dusty and there’s a dirty, blood stained bandage around his right bicep, but otherwise he looks healthy. He started to strip out of his clothes before Steve could slip out, and as he stands shirtless, combat pants unbuttoned and unzipped, he turns to Steve.

            “Thanks for looking after him for me,” he said, wiping a towel down his chest, “I was on my way back when you texted the second time, so I postponed the debrief until tomorrow.”

            “It was no problem,” Steve said, and Phil is amused to see the Captain trying his hardest to avoid looking at Clint, “we’re a family, right?”

            Clint’s expression softens, and he shakes Steve’s hand as the younger man exits with a quiet goodbye to Phil, making him promise to take his medicine.

            “I’m just going to shower really fast, and then I’ll be out. Do you need anything?” Clint drops his pants to the ground and kicks them under the bed, something Phil would normally scold him for. However, Phil just stares fondly at his husband.

            “Just you,” Phil whispered in the darkness, and closes his eyes.

            He must have dozed again, because Clint is suddenly climbing into the bed in just his briefs, pulling Phil in close. Kisses are peppered along Phil’s neck, which he protests, not wanting to get Clint sick, but Clint just shushes him. Clint noses Phil’s jaw, all the way up to kiss the tender skin behind Phil’s ear.

            “Go to sleep,” Clint said, and Phil does just that.

*

            Phil wakes feeling better, well rested and more awake, but Clint is glaring at him.

            “What?” Phil asked, leaning up on an elbow to look down at his husband.

            “My throat hurts, you bastard,” Clint pouted, “I think you got me sick.”

            Phil groaned, flopping back down onto his pillows, reaching out to tug Clint closer. They lay together for many long moments of silent, just breathing each other in.

            “You know,” Phil starts, “Steve cooked in an apron yesterday-yes, an apron-I’m sure he’d come up and do it again.”

            Clint chokes on a laugh, clutching his sore throat, “This I need to see.”

**Author's Note:**

> None of the characters are mine except for the doctor. 
> 
> Enjoy! Let me know what you think!
> 
> HUGE thanks to AlexKingOfTheDamned who helped me work through a few issues, and threw me some really awesome ideas!!


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